Lapdog
by LittleMissAfflicted
Summary: No matter the circumstance, a good pet is there for its master. Even when it is the pet who carries the unseen leash. Eisengrind/Pris. Based upon Neneko's doujinshi, Phobia.


**Disclaimer:**Kuroshitsuji is to Yana as Phobia is to Neneko.

**Warnings:**This time the 'M' stands for Mating :P

**AN:**Because Pris and Eisengrind are awesome antagonists, and I can't help but wonder what she was like before being trapped in her current form. That said, this is set pre-Phobia.

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><p>"Eisengrind…"<p>

It is his own name, in that lazy, sleep-worn drawl that signals the beginning of another day of servitude.

Apart from that, dawn is greeted by faint sounds. The metal barbs of his collar as they touch against his locks. The fabric of his clothing, whispering as it conforms to his movements. Dull footsteps.

"My lady."

He approaches her bed and offers a bow, just as he was taught to. She rises, sits, and turns to face him. And then, like a spoiled child, she stares. Fixes an impatient gaze upon him, lips pursed as she stretches her arms above her head, fingers grasping empty air.

Despite what a rotten creature she is, he cannot consider her to be anything less than beautiful.

Silken skin retains a vibrantly healthy glow. Below her neck, the substantial swell of her breasts are jostled by her movements. Lavender blossoms scatter along either side of well-rounded hips, and there is a vague recollection of the moment in which his hands gripped her with the strength necessary to create them. Her hair appears somewhat unkempt, blond ringlets mused by the fervor of their activity the night prior.

The same activity that she is sure to engage him in soon. He knows, because she always does. Priscilla always wants him.

Always.

"Don't be stupid," his master nearly hisses, glowering at him, tossing off-white sheets aside. For whatever reason, she is agitated, and Eisengrind knows that his first task of the morning is to chase the unpleasant mood away.

It has become a specialty of his, so to speak.

"You are unhappy," he says quietly as he takes a seat upon the edge of the mattress. A devil's nest. In this place, the scent of their bodies- of debauchery - is a subtle musk that will probably never fade.

At this she drapes her naked body against his lap. Eisengrind cannot help but be amused at how at ease Pris becomes when she touches him. Waves of golden curls spill over his legs as she buries her face between his knees like a nursing kitten. Her chest presses to one of his thighs and she squirms restlessly, turning over onto her side to ensnare his waist within a halfhearted grip.

"It's your job to make sure that I never am," she answers softly, cooing as he presses gloved fingers to her scalp, running comforting patterns wherever they roam. She is gorgeous indeed, this monster. Gorgeous, selfish, and broken.

"Eisengrind," she sighs, "you're a pathetic half-breed."

"I know."

Pris moves, straddling him and burying her face against the warmth of his neck.

"You're nothing but my little pet." Her loving tone sweetens the insult.

A nod. "I know."

He is eyed with hunger, her fingers toying with the spiked choker that she's forced him to wear. One hand moves to tangle in his lengthy mane. A warning against cutting it had been issued long ago. Perhaps warning is too kind a phrase, he thinks. It was a definite threat:

_Don't cut it unless I say so," she had growled into his ear. "If you cut so much as a strand, I'll sever you the same way. Anywhere and everywhere. Do you understand, mutt?"_

He cannot remember how they outgrew that relationship, or even how they established this one. Perhaps it is better that way.

An almost musical laugh ends the reverie. "I'm horrible to you. Don't you hate me?"

"No," he shakes his head. It's odd, really. Lacks so much as an ounce of logic, because it would only make sense to do just that. But he doesn't hate her, and he assures her of it again and again.

"Are you certain?"

Heartbeat smothered against her breasts, he watches as hips fall low enough to press against him, knowing that this alone will cause him to swell. Routine has taught him to rise to the intended occasion almost effortlessly.

"You're sure that this isn't the only thing that you like about me?"

This refers to all that she is: A lush body. Irresistible curves. An uncertain wretch who reeks of ripened peaches, vanilla, and misery. Loneliness that rubs a stain of gleaming need onto the cloth that guards his own.

Priscilla rakes her nails over the back of his neck, trailing them southwards to the collarbone hidden beneath his shirt. There they trace languidly, sweeping back and forth against the protrusion. She is thinking. Considering. Deciding how she would like to be taken, though he sees no point to that. She is the alpha of every tryst, for whether she lays above or below him, it is her will that remains absolute.

"I like many more things than just this," Eisengrind responds. He rests his arms over her shoulders and moves them to skim along her spine. They reach her waist before she takes hold of a hand, bringing it to press against her lips. Snow-white cotton is greeted by flawless pearl teeth that nibble briefly before coming together to tug the glove away.

The fabric sways limply, rhythmically, back and forth. It looks like some bizarre kill, boneless and clean. A pelt in the shape of a human hand dangling from Priscilla's rosy lips.

Crimson is better.

His blood. Her own. That of a victim whose name he will never know. Pris' lips taste better when covered in the thick heat of life devoured. Only then do they hold the raw flavor of savagery. Or better yet, his favorite…

Fear.

Fear is what Eisengrind admires most about Priscilla.

It is almost always with her.

When she gorges herself on wide eyes and cries so sharp that they resonate, vibratos bound by darkness that plead for saviors that never arrive. When she wails and screams, tantrums that only his touches can quell. Priscilla cannot seem to escape terror's grip, but to Eisengrind, this makes her perfect.

It makes the master dependent of her pet's affections.

It makes her his.

Pris parts her lips and allows the accessory to fall to the floor. An empty, sallow encasing that withers and blends against their shifting silhouettes. Eisengrind decides to follow her example, ridding himself of the other glove with a pull of his fangs.

"Good boy," Priscilla smirks impishly. A steady grind begins, her pelvis tucked closely to his, trapping heat between them.

"Mmm," is her soft remark towards the motion, the rhythm maintained as she plucks the glove from his mouth with her own. It drops when a particularly sweet rush of friction forces her to sigh, "Such a good, good boy…"

Such a good, good master.

Eisengrind watches, transfixed, as her tongue darts out to paint a fresh coat of moisture over her lips. Pris backs her torso away, enough for her chest to relinquish the contact it has with his jacket, and he understands. The half-breed needs no further entreaty, cupping a breast in each of his bare hands.

_"Oh,"_comes a gasp. "Your hands are cold!"

He massages the mounds of flesh, unfazed. "Forgive me."

Deliberation crosses her features before she answers wickedly, "I might, mutt, if you do your job correctly."

"Of course," he answers quietly, proceeding to tease twin buds of pink. He watches as they tighten while his fingers circle them, toying, trying to gain an impatient rise out of her. The desired result occurs within a minute.

"Eisengrind," Priscilla whines, drawing his name out into three long syllables. Nothing has changed, her body still rutting against his. The sensation, while lessened by his state of dress, is improved by her insistence.

"You brute," she snarls. "Useless idiot. Stupid beast."

It earns her nothing.

Patiently, Eisengrind waits. She has not issued a command of any sort, which means that soon-

_"Please_… Eisengrind… touch me!"

- her domineering insults will dissolve into pretty supplications.

Such a lovely thing she is, he thinks then. Torn within by the threat of rejection, which shines in her half-lidded eyes. No one wears fear like Priscilla does; like a noose that only he can remove.

Peaked flesh is stifled, rolled between thumb and forefinger, eliciting a sigh of contentment.

Then, an order. "Pinch harder."

He does.

"Like you mean it!" she yells, then croons. "Like you truly mean it, Eisengrind."

Eisengrind knows what she wants for him to mean. It is foolish of her to wish that of him, or anyone, really. But Pris is so easy to pity. So fragile. Such a myriad of power and weakness, that he cannot help but grant her pathetic wish.

The rocking of their bodies is stilled. Eisengrind sees to it that she stops. Leans her away by just a few inches so that he can run tenderness along her skin. Beginning with her hair, he touches slowly, mapping the body that he knows almost as well as his own: Neck, shoulders, breasts, stomach… the path splits so that he can slide his palms over sweat-moistened thighs, uniting once more as his hands meet upon her backside. A generous helping of flesh, indeed.

Suddenly there is an odd inquiry. "Are you thirsty?"

"Somewhat," the pet decides, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

Pris grins.

Eisengrind is pushed into the plush bed beneath them, watching as his master crawls higher, until her parted legs are cradling his face. Ah. Of course.

"Then drink." The words accompany the presentation of her core, a flower coerced into bloom by the digits that spread the petals apart. She is ready. More than, he notes, as he eyes the slickness that makes the whole of this forbidden garden glisten.

It isn't a demand that he can omit. Lips meet with a more feminine sort and Pris groans her delight. He knows how she loves this. How glossing his mouth with her lust excites her. How she revels in each jolt that comes from having him lave her roughly, deeply, just like an animal. But because of her sullen temper, he has to be the one to orchestrate this properly.

Eisengrind coaxes her hips into their earlier cadence, breaking walls of resistance with a painless tap to her rump and a merciless stroke of tongue to a swollen, begging pearl.

"Nnnh…" Somewhere above him, Priscilla purrs. Moans. Cries. Screams. Perhaps suckling her was a bit much, after all.

"Eisengrind, you… ooh… stop that already, you brazen thing!" is the scold that he receives, and though he bestows a defiant, gentle flick, it is accepted. He is not at all surprised.

What _is_unexpected, however, is the way in which she peers at him from beneath her full lashes. Like she has reason to worry. Knowing her twisted little mind, perhaps she does.

Pris decides to curl against him, head resting on his abdomen as she reaches down to fondle him. Torture him before the main event.

"Eisengrind," she hums, "do you think I'm pretty?"

"Exquisite," he grits as she applies pressure to the trapped, pulsing crown of his arousal.

"Always giving me such lovely words. You'll break my heart with them, Eisengrind." A palm presses into the rigid flesh.

"H-How so?"

"Because you don't mean them." The accusation, a livid growl, ripples over him. He is yanked, not cruelly, but enough to make a low and threatening sound stir in the back of his throat.

"Are you challenging me?" she laughs against him evily, shaking his frame.

He is, and says so. "Yes. Because I do mean them."

Her hand slows, creating meaningless swirls along his length. "And why do you mean them, Eisengrind?"

This time, he lies. "Because I am yours, My Lady."

He supposes that this is true, to some degree. But his reason for feeding her dulcet nothings is simple-

She needs him to.

Priscilla depends on them. On him, and the thrill of knowing so is magnificent.

Eisengrind charms her with more, feeding his starved owner the fragments of affection that hold her together. They draw her in, a malevolent enchantment, until they are close enough that their breaths mingle. Hers is labored, and this triggers a diminutive leer that he quickly discards as he melds their mouths together.

Kissing is both her favorite sport, and the chink in her supple armor.

Scorching wetness twines over and over, tongues meeting gently, until she adds the rasp of her fangs. Then it becomes something deadly, addictive. Eisengrind is quick to win the round as he tugs her lower lip and bites, enough to stain them a muddled ruby, and the scent makes him stir.

Together, apart, and together again, they continue to devour one another. Now it is Eisengrind who becomes unsettled, goaded by the tang of his morbid preference as he bucks his hips and drags them against her stomach. Hands touch everything within his grasp, and her whimpers grow loud, and he knows that Pris will surrender before long.

A swift noise- the button of his trousers coming undone- is wrought by the unsatisfied monster. At her request, there is no further barrier than this, and so Eisengrind is freed to the slight chill of air before being imprisoned by the smolder of her hands. Priscilla strokes him a mere few times. She would rather toy with the weeping slit and smear the viscous liquid at her leisure than try to gratify him. Eisengrind hardly minds. Her dejected expressions serve as compensation.

Bored, Priscilla releases him and giggles at an unexpected throb. A girlish sound that fades as her face becomes a strange combination of focused, irate, and needy.

When she asks, she doesn't. She tells. There are no poetic metaphors sung by impassioned lovers. No lewd proposals purred by a harlot's knowing mouth. Nothing more than a single word:

"Give."

So he does.

Eisengrind presses himself to her greedy little core and is treated to the sight of her hips hovering above him, just before he sinks in, deeply, watching as flesh consumes flesh. A mewl accompanies the sound of their union. This is the moment in which they become indivisible. In which Priscilla will cling and chant his name, and forget which of them owns the other.

But perhaps forgetting is not possible, Eisengrind groans. She never quite knew to begin with.

"Ah… that's it, there," grits the stunning creature as she impales herself thoroughly. "Eisengrind… no one feels better than you do."

He wants to laugh at the confession, really. That she'd even try to calm her ravenous appetite with anyone else… Pris truly is an adorable, despicable imbecile.

And that is just how he loves her.

Panting. "Move with me."

Snarls. "More."

Praise.

"Perfect," she finally purrs.

Rippling muscle continues to milk him, and Eisengrind can find no reason to complain. Her bitterness is wonderful. Her lilt is better- lifting, falling, bouncing harshly enough that a mortal man would be begging for mercy. Fortunately, he is neither of those things.

Unearthing genuine sympathy, Eisengrind takes a final look before he decides to deliver the grand finale that she works towards. Frantic gasps. Red cheeks. Tousled hair. Chest bobbing and rasping against dark fabric. Convulsions driving her mad, seeping within her and clenching around the pulse that continues to ruin her from within.

And then becomes devastation.

"Eisengrind!"

Priscilla begs, even though he knows the pain is welcome. The mating of devilish beings with a cadence that hardly knows out. Only in, deep, further, and more.

He suckles one of her breasts before abandoning the spice for the one at her mouth, renewing the earlier wound and infusing the sanguine droplets into their kiss. Their last one, because he rubs at her with his hand so rapidly that fluid waves become erratic jerks that lead her to oblivion.

"Eis-!"

He enjoys how his name is too long for Pris to complete as she yells, clawing into his shoulders.

Then the spasms within her clutch him, sending him over the edge with her.

They lay there, two beasts blanketed by sin, dependence, and heat.

At some point she had knocked him over, and he remains motionless as her body's tremors finally cease. But with that end comes a fresh mask of denial. Priscilla rises and he slips out of her with a thick, indulgent sound, and she splays herself upon her bed once more.

"I'm hungry, Eisengrind."

"What would you-"

"Hotcakes, with lots of butter and syrup. Garnish them with whipped cream and berries, but not too many."

"Yes, My Lady," he replies, gathering himself into a more presentable state, amazed at how quickly she can drown her sorrows.

The master that he owns, a plethora of ironic despair. A womanish thing that continues to haunt him endlessly, hungry with the lust of the adult, plagued by childish reliance.

But a good lapdog must never complain.


End file.
